


Into the Mystic

by Brate



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-22
Updated: 2011-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-22 23:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brate/pseuds/Brate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam starts sleepwalking. Could there be a paranormal reason?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Mystic

Sam Winchester slowly followed his brother into their room. Dean automatically sat on the nearest bed, tilting over as if getting ready to go to sleep.

"Not yet," Sam insisted. "I need to check your back."

"It's fine," Dean drawled, face already deep in the pillow.

"I'd like to see that for myself, if you don't mind." A brief tug-of-war transpired with Dean's shirt, but it ended quickly, the older brother too exhausted to fight for long.

He lifted his head. "Gimme a break, Sammy." Just because he had to surrender, didn't mean he intended to make it any easier for his opponent.

"You're the one who got knocked into a tree, dude," Sam shot back easily, pulling up Dean's shirt. "Maybe you should learn to bob and weave a little better."

"Who would've thought it could move that fast?" Dean winced at Sam's prodding. "You okay?"

"Not a scratch." Sam studied the point of impact. "Which is more than I can say for you—you need stitches."

"Aw, crap."

"Don't be a baby." Sam went to the bathroom to retrieve the first aid kit and a wet washcloth to clean the blood and dirt from the wound. He shook a couple of heavy-duty Ibuprofen into Dean's hand and held up a bottle of water.

Dean sat up. "They'll knock me out," he protested, eyeing the pills with distaste.

"Good, saves me the trouble." Sam made a _hurry up_ gesture. "You're going to need at least ten stitches."

"See? Scratch." Making a face, Dean swallowed the medicine, chasing it down with half the water.

"Lie on your stomach; I'll try to be gentle."

"Dude, I'm not one of your dates." But Dean did as instructed.

Sam took his time, letting the painkillers take effect before he did the bulk of the work. Dean was sleeping by the time he was finished. Sam pulled up the blanket to cover his brother.

Sam cleaned up and got ready for bed. He turned off the light and settled back, comforted by the sound of his brother's gentle snores.

~*~*~*~

Sam woke with a start, whipping his head around.

He was standing under a huge tree, drooping leaves hiding him from view. Checking his watch, he found it was just after five in the morning…and he was clad only in his t-shirt and boxers. He shivered in the cool morning air, not yet warmed by the early autumn sun.

Ducking out from under the tree, Sam looked around nervously. No one was in sight. Counting the days in his head, he realized it was Sunday. Thank God everyone was sleeping late.

Sam backed up a few steps, looking at the tree. It was a willow, an old one, one he recognized. It stood in the center of the town square they'd passed when they'd come into town. He sighed. At least he knew how to get back to the motel. Sam started walking, keeping watch for early morning joggers, dogwalkers, and the like. It wouldn't do to be caught out like this. Dean would never let him live it down if he was picked up for indecent exposure.

Okay, so he must've been sleepwalking. But he'd never done that before, as far as he knew. He could—should—ask Dean, but he already knew he wouldn't. Sam hated his "freakiness" and was content to ignore it when he could. Hopefully, this was a one-time occurrence. It had probably only happened because he was so tired.

By the time he slipped back into the room, he almost believed it.

Dean was still out, Sam noted with relief. He crawled back into bed, pulled the covers up to his neck, closed his eyes, and breathed slowly in and out.

It was a long time before he could relax enough to fall back to sleep.

The sun was bright on his face, and he snuggled deeper under the blanket.

"I don't think so, slug-boy."

The covers were ripped off, and Sam shuddered from the resulting breeze. Reluctantly, he sat up, rubbing his eyes. "What time 'sit?"

"Eleven." Dean handed him a cup of coffee. "Figured you could use the sleep, but enough is enough."

Sam's eyes flew wide open. "Are you serious?" He hadn't slept past seven in months.

"Yeah. Thought I would be the one to sleep through the day." Dean motioned at his bandaged back. "Now up and at 'em, we got work to do. Better make sure the problem is taken care of before we blow town." Dean pointed at Sam's feet. "And if I were you, I'd take a shower. Looks like you're way past due."

Confused, Sam looked down; his feet were filthy. The incident the night before came flooding back, and Sam frowned.

Of course, Dean would notice even that little reaction. "Sam?"

"Yeah, I'll get ready." Sam rolled out of bed, grabbed some clothes and his kit, and hustled into the bathroom before Dean could ask more questions. He set everything down on the meager counter and looked at himself in the mirror. Nothing wrong, no sense of anything strange. Maybe last night was just a fluke. No need to worry.

He hoped.

Sam turned from his reflection and started the shower.

~*~*~*~

Brushing through the motel door, Sam ignored the fishing nets and ship drawings on the wall, headed straight for his bed, and fell on it.

Dean shut the door and paused, watching Sam.

"What?"

"Nothing."

His brother's concern was obvious, even when he didn't say anything. "I'm just tired, Dean." They'd spent the day running around the town, making sure their hunt had been successful. It had. No deaths to report; their work here was done.

Still, Dean stood without moving.

"Man, either take a picture or go away. You're creeping me out."

"Yeah, okay." Dean motioned to the bathroom. "Need to use it?"

"No, you go ahead; I'm going to watch TV."

Dean nodded and grabbed his stuff. Within minutes, Sam heard the shower start. He grabbed the remote, flicking through channels before settling on "Sportscenter."

When they'd separated to scout the town, Sam had snuck in a quick trip to the library, checking out the old willow tree, seeing if there was anything unusual about it. He'd come up empty. Lying back against the pillow, he listened to the sound of running water mixed with sports commentary and let himself drift.

He awakened to a face full of willow leaves.

"Not again." He sighed. At least this time, he had fallen asleep in his street clothes.

"What do you mean, _again_?"

Sam flinched at his brother's angry tone. He turned to find Dean standing behind him, eyes narrowed. Sam took a deep breath, going for casual. "Dean."

"What do you mean again?" Dean repeated, slow and easy. Far from casual.

"Um…" Not sure where to start, Sam decided to go for the truth—mostly. "It seems I've started sleepwalking."

Dean folded his arms over his chest, waiting for more.

Sam tried again. "And here I am." He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and he turned to look, but there was nothing but leaves and branches. He turned back to his brother and this time really looked at him, beyond the irritated expression. Dean was wearing his standard bedtime fare: boxers and a t-shirt, but had apparently taken time to throw on his jacket and boots. Sam did his best to hide an unwanted smirk.

Dean eyes narrowed. "You think this is funny?"

"Not this, exactly, but I was wondering if you were trying out for a spot on the Village People."

Confused, Dean followed Sam's gaze. "Well, it's not like you were gonna wait for me." Dean pulled his leather jacket tighter around him. "Let's get the hell out of here and back to the motel, if that's okay with you?"

Sam didn't bother responding. He started back, knowing his brother would be behind him. As usual.

~*~*~*~

Dean waited until he shut the motel room door behind him. "Spill."

Sam didn't bother trying to feign innocence or ignorance. He knew exactly what Dean was asking for, and he had been stupid to try to conceal it from him. He grabbed a blanket off his bed and wrapped it around himself as sat down.

"How many?"

This time, Sam didn't fake his confusion. "How many what?"

Dean hadn't budged from beside the door, positioned as if he were going to stop Sam from leaving if he tried again. "How many times has this happened?"

"This is only the second time, I swear."

"Last night was the first?" Dean guessed.

Sam nodded.

"While I was too tired and doped up to notice your little stroll."

This time Sam shrugged. "I guess so."

"And you didn't think it was something I should know about?"

"I was hoping it was a one-time thing."

"Obviously, you were wrong," Dean growled. He started pacing, never moving far from the door. "Luckily, tonight I wasn't under the influence."

There was nothing Sam could say, so he remained silent.

"Okay. All right." Dean stopped pacing and stood before Sam. "Where did you end up the first time?"

"Same place," Sam said.

"Which can't be a coincidence," Dean pointed out. "We need to find out about that tree."

"I already looked in the library and came up empty."

"We'll look again." Dean was adamant. "If we don't find anything, I suggest we get the hell outta Dodge. Our job is done."

Sam shook his head. "We don't know how far it extends. I could end up sleepwalking down the highway or something, headed back to that tree."

Frowning, Dean agreed. "Fine, so we need to find out who or what is pulling your strings, Pinocchio."

His brother's scowl did little to hide his worry. Dean had always been protective of him, God knew, but when things were out of Dean's control, he got angry. Sam wondered if any of it came from what had happened at Roosevelt Asylum not so long ago. Maybe Dean was worried about something controlling Sam again? If he was honest with himself, Sam had to admit he felt the same way.

Dean's sharp tone broke into Sam's thoughts. "Get dressed; let's go."

~*~*~*~

The Winchesters went to the library together, but ended up with the same results as Sam's previous trip. Hardly mollified, Dean decided to go hands-on and find the truth by talking to some people—probably the good-looking waitress and the slutty barmaid.

Knowing Dean wouldn't need his help flirting through interrogations, Sam ended up back at the motel, scrolling through yet another useless webpage. "Haunted tree" didn't bring up much of anything except multiple references to hangings, especially out west and farther south.

There must be something else. Frustrated, Sam clicked on another link.

A sharp knock on the door broke his concentration. Distracted, Sam answered the door. "Did you forget your k—?"

He stopped short as a gun was thrust into his face. Two thoughts ran simultaneously through his head: _That was stupid_ and _Dean's gonna be pissed_.

Sam was pushed back into the room, coming to an abrupt stop when his legs hit the dresser. The door was kicked shut. The gunman, in his mid-fifties, held the weapon confidently. He was in good shape, a little bit shorter than Dean, with a face that looked as though it was used to smiling, but now showed a hate-filled glower.

"Listen," Sam tried to reason, "I got a few bucks in my wallet, but not much else, so—"

"Shut up!" the gunman snapped. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. He tossed them at Sam, who automatically caught them. "Put those on."

"Who are you?" Sam asked, not expecting an answer. But he got one.

"Peter." The gun never wavered.

"What do you want with me?"

"I want you to put those on, and then you're coming with me."

Sam snorted. "Not a chance."

"Well," Peter began, "then I guess I'll just have to take care of you here and wait for your friend." He nodded to himself. "Yeah, maybe that would be better. Better this way."

Sam could see the man was a few fries short of a Happy Meal, and he wasn't about to risk Dean's life. He would have to take the chance this guy was planning on taking him somewhere. As long as his brother remained free, there was nothing that would keep him from coming after Sam.

"Fine." Deliberately moving slowly, Sam closed the cuffs loosely on his wrists, keeping his hands in front, giving him a better chance to escape if given an opportunity.

"Tighter," Peter growled.

With a glare, Sam gave the metal a few more clicks, snugging them up.

Peter nodded, apparently satisfied. "Now turn around." He waited for Sam to obey then moved to the door, peering out the peephole. He kept his gun aimed at Sam's back.

Sam used the momentary distraction to let Dean know he hadn't left by choice. The dresser was old and battered. He'd accidentally poked himself on a sharp corner earlier that week and now he did it on purpose. Sam shoved his hand down hard into the splintered wood, wincing as the edge gouged his palm.

"All right, it's clear. I'm going to be right behind you. Walk to the grey Buick and get behind the wheel."

Sam turned slowly to face the man, holding up his cuffed hands, hiding the bloody hand inside its mate. "How can I drive like this?"

"You'll manage." Peter picked up a sweatshirt from the nearest bed and threw it over Sam's hands, hiding the restraints. He opened the door, shoving Sam forward, keeping the gun pressed firmly against his back. Peter was too busy checking that the "coast was clear" to notice what Sam was doing.

The sweatshirt hid his movements, and as he walked through the door, he ran his wound over the frame, leaving a smear of blood behind. Not much, but Dean would catch it instantly.

Sam's gaze darted around, searching for anyone he could motion to for help, maybe even his brother returning early. His eyes stopped on a young woman exiting a room a few doors down, a housekeeper.

Her face lit up with a big smile. "Hi, Mr. Porter!" she called.

"Hello, Tracey!" Peter easily returned the wave with his free hand, the gun never shifting from its lethal position. "How's your ma doing?"

Sam almost groaned in frustration, but remained silent, not even bothering to shoot her a look of distress. He couldn't take a chance on Peter hurting the girl. While Sam was willing to risk his own life, he wasn't about to make that decision for someone else.

"Much better, thank you," Tracey continued. "I'll see you around."

"See you, Tracey, have a nice day." Peter pushed Sam into the car, then slid into the backseat behind him. He gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. "Good boy…I would've hated to kill her."

Awkwardly, Sam started the engine and drove through town, following his captor's directions. He trusted Dean to find him. He just had to stay alive long enough to give his brother the chance.

Sam took the final turn, the car chugging as it climbed a steep slope toward a solitary house.

"Drive into the garage."

As the garage door lowered, Sam scanned the area. No one was around; even if he could safely call for help, he doubted anyone would hear him.

Peter noticed Sam's scrutiny and smiled. "I like my privacy."

The flip side to no one being around was that Sam didn't have to worry about anyone else getting hurt. He slid slowly from the car, head down, trying to appear defeated. As Peter stepped out behind him, Sam threw himself backwards.

Unfortunately, he underestimated his opponent and his reaction time. Peter blocked Sam's bound arms and swept his feet from under him.

Sam ended up on the floor, looking up at Peter's smirking face. Peter pointed his gun at Sam's leg. "I will shoot you if I have to. It'll be harder for me to get you inside, but I'll do it."

Sam instinctively raised his hands in a plea, forgetting about his cut palm. He saw the instant Peter recognized the significance of the blood.

"Get up." Peter's face flushed red with anger. "Get up, _now_!"

Sam clenched and released his jaw, forcing himself to remain calm. He nodded his acquiescence and struggled to his feet. Learning from Sam's attempt, Peter stayed well out of reach of the long limbs as he told Sam where to go. They walked past the kitchen and living room, up the main staircase, then through a door, and up a smaller, enclosed staircase. At the top, Sam looked around, seeing an attic of some kind that had been renovated into a sunroom. Bright afternoon light shined through the many windows, illuminating the stark interior. The majority of the view overlooked the town square where Sam had woken up twice now underneath that damn tree.

He was really starting to dislike that park.

"Now what?" Sam asked.

He barely felt the blow before losing consciousness.

~*~*~*~

Sam hated this feeling. Hated that he was far too familiar with it: waking up after being knocked out, his head a lead weight, his brain on vacation, and not knowing where the hell he was.

Forcing his body to obey his hazy commands, Sam lifted his head and looked around, the power of his will the only thing making his eyes focus. Blurry images coalesced into a fuzzy picture. He was bound to a chair in an attic. His head hurt and he could feel something dripping down his neck. Great, he probably had a mild concussion. What else could go wrong?

Oh, yeah. Peter.

The asshole in question was standing on a balcony, looking down at something with an inscrutable expression.

Trying to make as little noise as possible, Sam tested his bindings, but Peter had threaded the handcuff chain through the sturdy slats of the chair and tied his feet to the chair legs. Sam pulled at the restraints, but found he wasn't going anywhere.

Instantly, the thought of his brother crossed his mind and he sent out a silent plea, hoping Dean already knew he was missing and was even now on his way. Of course, he was going to be made to suffer Dean's insults about needing to be rescued—again.

Returning his attention to Peter, he swiveled his head just in time for his kidnapper to turn around and see him.

Peter smiled and pushed away from the railing. Calmly, he stepped back into the room, not bothering to close the doors behind him. "You're awake."

"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock." Sam knew it was a mistake as soon as the words left his mouth, but the smack across his jaw solidified it. The pain flared to life as sharp lights filtered into his vision.

"This is my favorite spot, you know," Peter continued as if there'd been no interruption. "I go out there all the time…to think. It's where we shared our first kiss." He paused. "I can see her from here."

Tired, Sam let his head drop. He had no idea what this guy was talking about, and to be honest, he really didn't care. As long as Peter kept talking and forgot about hitting or shooting, it was all good in Sam's estimation.

Peter paced around the room, picking up speed as he went. "Lucinda was going to leave me. Everyone thought she did. But I couldn't let her do that, oh, no." His voice was rising, his gestures growing more wild. "Now she'll always be mine. But I have to protect her. If they find her, they'll take her away. She'd be gone forever. I can't let that happen."

Suddenly, Peter seemed to remember Sam was there. He bent over, his red face directly in front of Sam's. "She called you, didn't she?"

"What?" Sam held in the wince at the sound of his own voice. His headache was already brutal, and Peter's ranting wasn't helping any.

"It's your own fault, you know."

"Of course it is," Sam agreed easily. Smile and nod at the crazy person, and hope Dean was on his way.

"I had no choice. I loved her."

The fuzzy picture suddenly—instantly—snapped into focus. Sam's brain was still working despite itself. "You killed her," he said on a breath. "Then you buried her under the willow tree."

Peter snorted. "As if you didn't already know." Then he stepped back and frowned. "I'll have to go get the other one."

The dull fear Sam had been holding back sprang up and threatened to strangle him. "He has nothing to do with this."

"I saw you," Peter hissed. "I saw you _both_."

"I was sleepwalking," Sam insisted. "That's all."

"No." Peter shook his head. "No, no, no. She's mine, you hear me? You stay the hell away from her." He shoved Sam's chest hard, and Sam had no chance to keep his balance as the chair tipped. He hit the floor hard, but this time there was no merciful unconsciousness. He felt every wave of pain, every second of nausea and dizziness.

Peter stormed out of the room and Sam heard him pounding down the stairs. Sam pulled at the bonds around his legs, hoping they had loosened in the fall, but they remained tight and unforgiving.

Carefully lowering his head down onto the floor, he whispered, "Anytime now, Dean."

~*~*~*~

Sam floated in a haze, having no idea how much time was passing. The shadow on the wall lengthened and the room darkened. At one point he thought he saw a young woman standing over him, but she was gone the next instant. Sam didn't think he was awake and was pretty damn certain he was far from aware.

When the gentle hands ran over his head and face, he wasn't even sure if they were real. But as soon as those hands grabbed the chair and pulled it upright, his gut tightened with very real-feeling nausea. He groaned.

"It's okay, Sammy, it's me."

"Dean?" Sam asked, although he already knew the answer.

"Of course. Can you lean forward so I can get these cuffs off?"

Another surge of vertigo accompanied the movement, but he did as instructed, almost falling forward when his arms were released. Dean rushed around and, with quick hands, stopped Sam's descent.

His arms falling limply to his sides, Sam leaned back, letting his head tilt up to look at Dean. He managed a weak smile. It quickly turned into a grimace as the feeling came back into his limbs.

Dean sliced through the ropes around his ankles. "Are you okay?" He gingerly checked the back of Sam's head.

"Better now," Sam admitted. He started to get up, but Dean gripped his shoulder.

His brother held up one hand. "How many?"

Sam looked and scowled. "Dude, I'm not even going to dignify that with a response."

"Well, you sound just as uppity as usual; I'm gonna call it good." Dean patted Sam's knee. "Let's get the hell outta here before Señor Loco comes back."

"But we can't just leave," Sam protested.

"I'm getting you out of here," Dean said. "I'll be coming back to take care of him later, believe me."

"No, I mean, he killed her. We have to do something." Sam struggled to explain what Peter had said.

"All right, then we leave, shoot the cops an anonymous tip, and everyone's happy."

"You're actually condoning involving the cops?"

"Well, as you keep telling me, killing people is wrong. And no way am I letting this guy get off scot-free." Dean lifted Sam to his feet and held him steady for a moment until Sam could keep his balance.

Then Dean's support was abruptly removed and Sam was flung back into the chair, sending it and him crashing to the floor. He struggled to his feet, but almost fell over when he tried to step forward, staggering back against the wall.

Swiping away a stream of blood flowing down from his scalp, Dean faced his adversary. The two men circled each other warily, before Peter rushed at Dean.

Sam looked for a weapon, anything he could use to help his brother, but there was nothing. He'd been relegated to the sidelines, using everything in him to simply remain upright as his brother fought for their lives.

Peter must have had some training, perhaps military, because Dean was finding it hard to get the upper hand. Between Peter's furious insanity and Dean's head wound, things weren't looking good for Team Winchester.

Dean ducked another blow, but failed to dodge the next. He stumbled back through the open door onto the balcony. Peter followed, grabbing Dean by the throat and squeezing.

A punch to Peter's gut broke the hold. Dean followed with a ferocious kick, sending his attacker through the doorway and onto the attic floor.

With a cry of rage, Peter stood and rushed at Dean.

Sam shouted, "Dean, duck!"

Dean dropped instantly.

Unable to stop his momentum, Peter slammed into the railing and tumbled over.

Climbing to his feet, Dean looked down. With a grimace, he turned away and stumbled back to Sam's side. "We need to leave _now_."

Sam was grateful for the support as they made their way down the stairs. "We'll have to dig up Lucinda."

"Why?"

"She should be buried in hallowed ground."

Dean rolled his eyes at the stubborn stupidity of younger brothers everywhere. He parked Sam in a kitchen chair and ordered, "Stay put," before walking out of the room.

"Like I can go anywhere," Sam muttered under his breath. And didn't he go swiftly from relief to petulance once they were safe?

He had no idea how much time had passed before Dean returned and slammed a piece of paper down on the table.

"That good enough?"

Head feeling a little clearer, Sam was able to make out the words: _I killed my love and buried her under the willow tree in the town square. I can no longer live with what I've done._

It was signed Peter Porter.

"How'd you—?"

"Man, that guy has so much correspondence on his desk; it was the easiest forge job ever. I also cleaned up the attic. No one will ever know we were here." Dean tilted his head with a sigh. " _Now_ can we go?"

Sam hesitated.

Dean added, "She'll be taken care of, Sammy."

Sam nodded. "Let's get out of here."

~*~*~*~

Sam woke up in a bed.

Thank God.

"They made the front page."

He rolled over to see his brother reading a newspaper. Dean flipped it around so Sam could read the headline: "Murder/Suicide Shocks Town."

"They found her?" Sam asked, rubbing his eyes. He noticed Dean had cleaned and wrapped his cut palm while he was out of it.

"Buried right under the X," Dean verified. "Apparently, she'd been there for over twenty years. There's a funeral service tomorrow. Lucinda Davenport will be buried in the church cemetery, hallowed ground."

Sam let his head drop back onto his pillow. "Good."

"So I guess _all_ our work here is done, right?"

"I didn't ask for it to happen, asshole."

"True," Dean agreed, "but next time you go on walkabout, how 'bout letting me in on it?"

"Promise." Sam gingerly lifted himself up and accepted the pain meds his brother handed him, swallowing them down with the water. "How's your head?"

Dean deflected the concern. "I'll live."

Sam knew his brother didn't need to hear it, but he definitely needed to say it. "Thanks, man."

"Yeah, whatever. I'd say 'anytime' but you'd probably take me up on it. And despite how much you like to do it, I don't exactly enjoy you going missing."

Sam dragged himself out of bed and found a t-shirt. He turned to his brother as he pulled it on. "How _did_ you find me, anyway?"

"Dude, I was frickin' Magnum—I tracked your ass down." At Sam's look, Dean said, "Okay, fine. I saw the blood and asked around. This hot little maid told me she saw some 'really tall guy' go off with Old Man Porter. Even without a trusty geek boy, I can still work a phone book."

"Yeah, lucky for me."

"Bet your ass." Dean threw the paper down on the bed next to his packed duffel. "You good to go? Before you get 'summoned' again?"

"She needed help, Dean," Sam protested mildly, tossing his clothes into his own bag.

"Yeah, okay, I learned the lesson: ghosts good, humans bad. Just don't expect me to take it easy on the next spirit we run across."

"God forbid."

"Besides, you let an old man take you down." Dean shook his head. "That's just plain embarrassing."

"Yeah, the same one that kicked your ass."

"Shut up."


End file.
